Marriage and Fungi and the Volunteers
Hey guys. Long time no see. What’s it been- a year?
I saw a post the other day that was directed towards writers who don’t feel like writing. It said something like “If writing sounds hard, then don’t do metaphors. Just write the facts and you can add the rest later.” So, because there’s so much to write about, I’m going to list some facts to help me get started.
There is a fungus that is killing Huron Nation Forest. Or, the oak trees, at least. It’s called Bretziella fagacearum, or Oak wilt for short. The forest is still pretty, and if you walk down 300 stairs and find a certain wooden post, you’ll see that a family visited in 2007 and wrote their initials in Sharpie. It’s still there, almost 20 years later, like it was written yesterday.
Marriage is hard. At least it is for me.
I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
I quit the job that I loved and had been at for over a couple of years, to try a higher paying corporate job, and hated it, and went back to the old job that I loved.
Ronaldo wants to move away. I don’t want to move, with him.
I came home yesterday to a frog on my doorknob. I tried to put it down and it held onto me.
Blu is going through a Ghostface phase. I hope I didn’t birth a psychopath.
I love college football. I’ve always loved the Georgia Bulldogs. I think I’m converting slowly into a Tennessee fan. (If you tell anyone that, I WILL hunt you down.)
I will always use deodorant with aluminum in it. I don’t care if it’s bad for me.
Jackie is pregnant with a baby girl.
The future is scary.
I have been so, so sad.
I didn’t know over half of the people at my wedding.
Ronaldo’s dad offered to pay for our wedding. It was in May, and it rained. There were crystal glasses when I wanted disposable, and there was a harp and a violinist when I wanted a Spotify playlist, and there were about 25 guys from “the hunting club” in attendance with their wives. I’m not a part of a hunting club, if you were wondering. My ex boyfriend’s mother got into an argument with my caterer, and I did the father daughter dance with my uncle who told me that I should get an abortion, and my mother was there. And I locked eyes with her when I was going down the aisle, and all I could think about was how much more she deserved out of life, and how the father whom I mourn every day took all of that away from her, and maybe that’s why I have a hard time opening my heart;. I’m married, and I have a hard time opening my heart.
I think I should go to therapy.
I think that, a lot of times, people love the idea of people more than they actually love the people. Does that make sense?
Life will feel okay again. I’ll figure out whatever it is that’s wrong with me, or I’ll get over it and move on. But I want to keep writing, and I want to be inspired, and I’ve said it a million times but I want to be understood most of all. I want to be like that frog on my doorknob. I want to know when to hang on, and know when it’s time to let go.
Next time,
Sally